


The Writer's Muse

by freudensteins_monster



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Hastur Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Calliope short story in Neil Gaiman's Sandman Chronicles, M/M, Muses, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29673057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudensteins_monster/pseuds/freudensteins_monster
Summary: Inspired by Calliope by Neil Gaiman.Crowley is a writer struggling to write a follow up to his successful debut novel, and becomes so desperate to cure his writer's block that he procures a muse.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	The Writer's Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking through the usb that contained a copy of the last fic I posted and I found this WIP. I reread it and was like "Wow, this is really good. When did I write this?" lol. Apparently I wrote most of this in May last year, and upon reading it over this afternoon I was able to wrap it up with a simple open ending. Hope it's okay. xoxox

It had been two years since Anthony J Crowley’s debut novel had made every bestsellers list. Two years since he was the toast of the literary world, busy with book tours and press tours, magazine profiles, award shows and after parties. And two years since he’d managed to write even a page of anything that didn’t immediate get aggressively deleted.

For two years he’d managed to dodge the near constant barrage of questions about his next book, his next big idea, acting coy and playing up his excessively private process, offering only the vaguest answers in reply. But his publisher had finally had enough and was now demanding a treatment and some sample chapters for his next book by the end of the month.

When the call had ended Crowley had stared despondently at his laptop for a solid minute before getting the hell out of his apartment and heading for the nearest bar. Sometime between drinks six and seven he’d found himself slumped in a leather wingback chair of some uppity private gentlemen’s club he’d been made a member of when he’d started rubbing elbows with other famous authors. He was nursing drink eight when he realized there was someone occupying the seat across from him.

Old. That was the first word that came to mind as Crowley’s eyes refocused. The man was practically ancient; his teeth were piss-yellow, his torn fingernails were a few shades lighter, and what little hair he had left was stringy and grey. He had a cold, unnerving stare that sent a shiver up Crowley’s spine as it roamed over his sprawled form.

“Anthony J Crowley, I presume,” the man grinned, seemingly getting a thrill from Crowley’s revulsion.

“…wassit to you?” Crowley drooled.

“Lloyd Hastur, at your service.”

“Fuck off,” Crowley scoffed. Lloyd Hastur was a legend in his world, a literary genius. He’d churned out bestseller after bestseller for most of the 80’s and 90’s, but then each new released started getting darker and more disturbing until even the most loyal of fans stopped reading them. He had disappeared from the public eye back in 2003 and no one had heard anything from him since. Crowley had read one of his earliest works, _Hellfire_ , at the impressionable age of thirteen and came away knowing he was going to be a writer. He glared at the man claiming to be one of his literary heroes over the top of his trademark sunglasses, his imagination stripping the man of decade’s worth of hard living until a familiar face, one that graced the covers of hundreds of books, stared back at him. “Holy shit… Is you. I’mma big fan, me,” Crowley stammered, trying to right himself.

“Kind of you to say. I’m a big fan of yours as well,” he remarked, tipping his glass to Crowley. “ _The Fallen_ was an impressive debut. I’m looking forward to seeing what you come out with next.”

“Yeah, you and the rest of the bloody world,” Crowley grumbled petulantly before a flash of anxiety had him wanting to eat his words, but it was too late; Hastur smelt blood in the water. His grin grew more disconcerting as it grew wider and Crowley had trouble ignoring the instinct to flee.

“Writer’s block, is it? Bastard of a thing.”

Crowley sneer at the cursed phrase. “What do you know of it? You’ve published more books than James bleeding Patterson.”

“Wasn’t always that way,” Hastur recalled lazily, his tongue developing a mind of its own as it savored something dark and pungent smelling. He paused for effect, locking eyes with Crowley, “Want to know how I beat it?”

“This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. And bloody stupid,” Crowley muttered as he stood across the street from the imposing looking apartment building in a once nice part of town. He weighed his options again as he tried to get a better grip on the glass case currently digging into his stomach and not lose the trench coat folded over his arm in the process. He took a deep breath, counted to ten, and crossed the street.

He was being ridiculous, and stupid, but he was also really, really desperate.

The story Hastur had spun a week earlier was fantastical and completely impossible; the old bastard hadn’t lost his touch for storytelling even if he had lost touch with reality. And what did that make Crowley? The daft, desperate bastard willing to believe in magical solutions.

He struggled to press the apartment number with his elbow, but eventually there was a buzz and the door to the building’s lobby opened for him. A short clunky ride in a grimy elevator later and he was standing in front of Hastur’s apartment conflicted; the voice in his head telling him to piss off home while his foot rapped the toe of his designer boot against the door. An agonizing minute and several deadbolts later the door was pulled open as far as the security chain would allow and one of Hastur’s bloodshot eyes glared back at him.

“Took you long enough,” Hastur grumbled as he let Crowley in.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t like I could just nip down to Petco,” Crowley snapped, though his tone evaporated in the face of Hastur’s collection. The walls of the sitting room were lined with shelves full to bursting with terrariums containing several zoos worth of amphibians and reptiles. The whole room had an eerie, damp quality to it, thanks in part to the rainforest-like climate control and the glow of the solitary light source reflecting off the green-tinted glass of the terrariums. Not to mention the thousands of coldblooded eyes that stared out from behind them.

“You got it, then?” the other author demanded.

“Yeah,” Crowley huffed, tearing his gaze away from the terrariums to hand off the one in his arms. “One exceedingly rare and bloody expensive golden toad, as requested.”

Crowley watched the old man fawn over the tiny toad; though it was quite beautiful as toads went, the man’s appreciation was verging on lecherous.

“I held up my end of the bargain, now what about yours?” Crowley inquired, growing more desperate by the second to be free of Hastur’s slimy presence. “Where’s this miracle cure for my writer’s block.”

“Hold your horses,” Hastur cooed, his eyes fixed on the golden toad as he slid its terrarium into an open space between an iridescent sunbeam snake and an absurdly cheerful looking pink axolotl. “Bring the coat,” he instructed as he led Crowley deeper into the apartment. Shelves continued to line the walls but the terrariums were soon replaced by books, and as they neared the end of the hallway they were stacked more erratically, shoved into any available space, with piles of tattered notebooks littering the floor.

Hastur paused at the last door and pulled a key from his threadbare dressing gown. The thunk of the tumblers gave Crowley a start and with hesitant steps he followed Hastur into the dark room. Hastur made no effort to turn on a light so Crowley reluctantly pushed his sunglasses back. His amber eyes had barely adjusted to the gloom but what he could see had him reeling back with a gasp. The room was empty save for a dirty mattress upon a wrought iron bed against one wall and in the opposite corner of the room, curled up in a ball, was a man.

“What the fuck is this…”

The man appeared to be around his age with fair skin, a halo of curly blonde hair, and wore the remnants of a white robe across his plump frame. Every inch of him was in desperate need of a wash – and a bloody restraining order against Hastur. The man glanced up at the interlopers with wary disinterest, but when the man’s unearthly blue eyes flicked to Crowley he felt his soul stripped bare.

“It’s your cure,” Hastur chuckled darkly.

“ _He_ is not an it,” Crowley hissed. “He’s a fucking person!”

“It’s a muse; it’s not even human,” Hastur growled back. “What were you expecting, hmm? A statue?”

“Who is this man?” the muse in question asked, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Have you brought him here to watch?”

“I’m too old for that nonsense, and you know it, ya smug bastard,” Hastur spat, crossing the room to weakly kick the muse in his side. “This is Crowley. He’s a writer. He needs inspiration, so I’m giving you to him.”

“No!” the muse recoiled, trying burrow into the corner. “You promised you would free me once you were done with me. You promised!” he pleaded, those unearthly blue eyes filling with shimmering tears.

Hastur laughed then, a terrible phlegm-riddled thing, as he grabbed the muse by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Writers are liars, my dear, surely you know that by now,” he crowed, shoving the muse into Crowley’s arms.

Crowley looked down the trembling man, the muse, and tried to remember how the hell he got involved in this mess.

“Cover it up, take it home, and claim it. You’ll have no end of inspiration, you have my word. You’ll have that new book finished by the weekend,” he chuckled.

“Claim it?” Crowley stammered.

“Fuck it,” Hastur clarified with a sneer. “Make it yours. Plug yourself into it ethereal powers, or some shite. Now get the fuck out of my house. I don’t wanna see you or it ever again,” he ranted, herding them back toward the front door, and before Crowley knew it he was standing outside the locked apartment door with his hands curled around the shoulders of a victim of horrific abuse who was also supposedly the embodiment of inspiration.

With a lack of anything more appropriate to do Crowley stepped back and pulled the trench coat around the muse’s shoulders and guided him towards the elevator with a gentle hand at his back.

“Let’s get you the hell out of here,” Crowley insisted. The muse didn’t seem particularly grateful but followed Crowley’s instructions regardless. 

The muse was silent for the duration of the journey back to Crowley’s apartment in Mayfair and Crowley didn’t bother to try and fill it, his mind still reeling from the evenings events. He parked his restored Bentley in its assigned parking space in one of the basement levels of his building instead of on the street to avoid prying eyes. He gently ushered the muse out of the car and into the elevator, his heart clenching at the muse’s distant expression.

“This is me,” he announced awkwardly as he unlocked his apartment door and gestured for the muse to enter. The muse pulled the trench coat a little tighter and took a few tentative steps inside, and then a few more when he spied Crowley’s plant room.

Crowley cringed inwardly thinking on his small rainforest, unable to stop comparing it to Hastur’s own hobby. They weren’t so dissimilar, were they? Especially now that Crowley was contemplating holding another being prisoner, using and abusing them just so he could find the inspiration needed to write another bloody book. If he didn’t… well, he’d have to admit to his publisher that he didn’t have another book – that he didn’t have another single workable idea. He’d have to at least pay back his advance, but they’d probably sue him for breach of contract as well so he’d have to sell his Bentley and his apartment to pay the settlement as well as all the related legal fees. He’d have to beg for his old job at the plant nursery back, and call Madame Tracey to see the tiny basement apartment in her building was still available. He’d be blacklisted by the industry and never get published again. If he ever managed to write again, that is.

In the end his choice was simple.

“How do I free you?” he blurted out, startling the muse.

The muse spun on his heel, his blue eyes blown wide with surprise, “What was that?”

“How do I free you?” Crowley repeated, becoming more convinced he was making the right decision with every passing moment. “I’m so sorry for all of this. But I was desperate, and Hastur convinced me that he had something that would help. I didn’t know you would be, you know… _you_. I don’t know what I expected, honestly. Not sure I really believed Hastur when he said he had a muse, but here you are; a real, living, breathing person. And I can’t hurt you – I won’t hurt you,” he swore. “So how do I free you?”

“You just… release me,” he replied meekly with a wave of his hand, afraid to believe what he was hearing. “Tell me I’m free to leave you.”

“I release you,” Crowley said instinctively, and then more words came to him unbidden and unquestioned. “I release you from the bonds Lloyd Hastur and any before him placed on you. You are free to leave this place and reclaim your freedom.”

The muse smiled then, a soft, luminous thing, and seemed lit from within. His skin and hair, even his poor excuse for clothes seemed clean and renewed. He was beautiful.

“Thank you,” the muse sighed and disappeared from Crowley’s sight.

Crowley blinked. And blinked again. The trench coat was still there in a crumpled pile on the floor.

“That was a hell of thing,” he muttered to himself as he bent down to pick it up, promptly falling over as the weirdness of the evening caught up to him, and didn’t bother getting up. The floor was as good a place as any for a kip. A few hours later when he’d regained some of his senses he relocated to a softer surface but to no avail. He was exhausted, wrung out, and weirded out, but he couldn’t find any peace. Every time he closed his eyes he saw those brilliant blue eyes.

At about 3am he gave up and poured himself a glass of wine, plonking himself down in front of his neglected laptop. A blank document was waiting for him, but instead of feeling mocked Crowley felt motivated. He placed his wine glass down and started typing, and he didn’t stop typing until his phone rang at the end of the month.

“I got the sample chapters,” his agent said by way of a greeting.

“Uhuh,” Crowley hummed, “And?”

“They are foaming at the mouth!” he gloated. “Why have you been sitting on this? You should have told me. I could have been dangling this in front of their noses and demanding more money, instead of having them hounding you for an update.”

“But they’re satisfied, yeah? They’ll leave me be?”

“Absolutely. They smell another bestseller. They’ve extended your deadline – you’ve got six months to have the finished novel ready for editing. But I reckon even if you’ve only got a first draft done they’ll be happy.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just keep them from bugging me. I’ll be in touch when I’ve finished.”

“What’s got into you?”

“I’m in the middle of scene, alright?” Crowley growled irritably. “I’m in the zone, and I’d like to stay there, so let’s keep the interruptions to a minimum, yeah?”

“Ha! Right you are, Crowley. I’ll check in once every other week to make sure you’re still on track, alright?”

Crowley hung up on them and got straight back to writing. Less than a month later he had finished his first draft, and a month after that he had his final draft ready to submit.

His agent was over the moon, his publishers too judging by the number of zeroes on his new contract. When its release date arrived _The Angel and the Serpent_ had been so hyped up that it shot straight to number one on the bestsellers list.

The next day, after behaving himself at the release party, Crowley wandered the streets of London. He’d been to visit Madame Tracey for a cuppa, handing over a box of signed copies she could sell on eBay for a pretty penny, and tried not to dwell on the fact that she was the only acquaintance that he wanted to celebrate his successes with. His mind strayed to a pair bright blue eyes, but he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.

“The Ritz,” he decided with a smile. If he had no one to celebrate with he’d damn well just have to celebrate by himself.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of the maître d’ that he realized he didn’t have a reservation, and he wasn’t nearly arrogant enough to think he could just drop his name and a table would magically free up for him. But as it happened he needn’t have worried.

“Mr Crowley!” the maître d’ beamed. “Welcome back, sir. If you’ll follow me, your party is waiting for you.”

“My party?” Crowley muttered under his breath. Curious, he followed the maître d’ to the best table at the more private end of the restaurant. He fell into the chair that had been pulled out for him, almost passing out in shock at the sight of the blue-eyed muse sitting across from him finishing off a slice of cake.

“Hello, Crowley dear,” the muse greeted with a warm smile. He held up a glass of champagne and winked at the writer. “I hear congratulations are in order.”


End file.
